Speak
by Stratagem Blue
Summary: She was so frail, so lost. Underneath all that pain and confusion, he saw talent. He saw perfection. My version of Erik's first words with Christine, as the Angel of Music. Oneshot.


Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.

A/N: Here again with another oneshot. This is my version of the first encounter between Erik and Christine, written from Erik's POV, with the thoughts and feelings that prompted him to finally speak to his angel out of the darkness. I like to explore different writing styles, to discover different genres in myself. This fanfic is much less ornate than any of my previous ones, but in no way less heartfelt, and I enjoyed writing it immensely. I hope you enjoy reading it.

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**Speak**

It started with tears. He heard someone crying softly from the chapel as he passed one night, and he made his way there, just to see.

In a passageway set to the right of the alter, he stood quietly and listened through the thick wood paneling. Between little gasps of air and a few light sniffles, he heard a young female voice whispering in prayer. He knew that voice; it was Christine Daae, the tender orphan, brave but nearly broken, who he had taken to heart since the moment of her arrival. A gentle soul that he had comforted with the only beautiful thing he could create. Music.

She was praying to her father, as she did so many nights before drifting off to sleep. He knew, because he had heard it, waiting in the dark to sing in her dreams.

"Please, give me strength...I only want to make you proud of me. I want to be so much...please, don't let me fail. _Don't let me fail_."

She began to cry harder, though not loud enough to draw attention. The silence rose up, engulfing him entirely except for the sounds of the weeping child in the next room. He knew of her secrets, her desires to fulfill a life of privilege that would keep her father's memory alive. And do it justice. He had tried to diminish her anxiety and grief with his voice, and thereby lead her away from her anguish. There was such talent, such enormous potential lying in her untrained voice. Yet with a head full of daydreams it would never surface. But she was still fighting. She was still holding on.

Perhaps it was that one endearing quality that had brought about his love for her. Or maybe it was the way she smiled, so bright and charming, whenever she was granted the smallest praise from the ballet mistress. The flow of her dance, filled with the passion she yearned to put in her voice. The sweep of her hair, or the glow of those blue eyes, the bluest he had ever seen.

Somehow he knew it was all of these things combined, and so many others. He loved her, and it was as he listened this night, to her vulnerable pleas from inside the walls that hid him from the world, that he realized that he was _in_ love with her. The idea did not surprise him. It was only a turn of phrase; love, in love.

"You talked of so many things, so many wonderful things. Of angels; angels of music and dreams and adventures. You always had a story. Sometimes...sometimes I think of those stories and I can almost hear your voice. I wish you were here now, to tell me what to do, where to go. I'm so lost without you."

The Angel of Music. It was a concept she had spoken of so many times, at moments just like this, when she believed herself to be alone. As time had progressed, he had heard her speak to the spirit of her father, proclaiming that the angel had indeed visited her. But only in her dreams. She believed the voice she heard as she slept, _his_ voice, was that of an angel!

It had enchanted him; the thought of his music creating a sense of peace and trust within her mind, still so young and enraptured by fairy tales of comfort and protection. He had entertained the idea many times, had planned it all out in his head, but had never acted upon it. It was so tantilizing, and utterly terrifying. That if he wished, if he truly _dared_, he could speak with her. Speak to her, not as a man or a phantom or a demon of horrors, but as an angel.

An angel that she could come to love.

The idea sent a tremor of panic and excitement down his spine, and it was as he stood there, bathed in these conflicting yet elevated sensations, that he realized he could do it. She sounded so helpless out there, waiting for an absolution from a man who would never speak again, lost and fragile and desperate. How he longed to take that voice and sculpt it into an instrument of brilliance! To instill his own hidden talent into her soul and thus reveal its glory to the world, for all to marvel at.

And when the curtains closed, to have her come to him. Perhaps one day, to slip a thin gold band around that delicate finger...

"Please, I...I don't know how to move on from here. I hate feeling so useless, so...alone. Please help me. I just want to be the person you thought I could be. Help me. Please, please help me."

He left the passageway and found another, one which led to a point just over the chapel. It was a spot from which he could see her, but one where she could not see him. He perched above the rafters like a hawk seeking prey, staring down into the room with a morbid hunger. She knelt before the crucifix, a tiny picture of her father resting on the alter with a single lighted candle to keep it company. Her slender hands were clasped in prayer. The meager light from that one tiny flame illuminated her lovely face, caressing it with warmth.

He needed her. He had always needed her, always would need her, and now at last, he was ready.

"_Christine..._"

Her head snapped up in alarm, glancing into the darkened corners to see where the voice had come from. The fear shone brightly in her eyes, refracted in the glistening drops of her tears. Her lips were slightly parted by surprise and apprehension, her hands beginning to pull away from one another. She stood shakily, swallowing visibly and looking toward the only door in the room, which had not been opened. No one had entered.

"_Christine..._"

Her eyes went skyward, following the sound to its source. From her position, the ceiling would only appear to be a nest of shadows, opaque and impenetrable. Yet she was looking directly at him, her beauitful blue eyes shining with fright and wonder, and he felt his heartbeat quicken.

"Who's there?" she asked in a terrified whisper.

"Do not fear, child. I will not hurt you," he called down softly to her, and a smile began to emerge, creasing his features.

Her face revealed that her fear had only intensified, a widening of the eyes and a sharp intake of breath issuing from her as she gasped. She stumbled backwards until she was crouching against the wall, staring with disbelief up into the shadows that had spoken. She was trembling, frightened and confused, and although these preceptions were accurate and evident, there was something else. Something close to recognition in that gaze.

"Shhh, little one," he soothed, using all the gentleness he could apply to his voice. He saw that, despite her panic, her labored breathing began to ease. "I am not here to harm you. I am here to help you, to give you strength. Calm down now, and dry your eyes. You are safe under my wing."

"I know your voice," she whispered musingly, for a moment her initial alarm disipating as she listened to him speak. "I've heard it before, but only-"

"Only in your dreams," he finished, and his smile broadened into a grin at her incredulous look.

"But...how can that be?" she asked timidly, fretfully. She seemed to shudder with uncertain anticipation, as though she longed and dreaded the answer that would come. Or if it would come at all. Then, in a voice so small and tearful that it nearly broke his heart, she asked, "Who are you?"

"Why, I am your angel," he replied, and a thrill passed through him as he called to her. "The Angel of Music."

"_Angel_." One word, barely audible, laced with hopeful disbelief and nostalgic affirmation. She stood from the wall, a little more daring in the face of this dream turned reality, and came into the glow of the candlelight once more. Her face was tear stained and tired, from grief and shock. Her night clothes hung loosely on her thin frame, and her brown curls hung in disarray about her face, the eyes over bright as they scanned the darkness above. As they passed unknowingly over him.

And she was beautiful. _Someday_, he thought wistfully, staring at her lovingly, tenderly, obsessively. _Someday, I'll stand next to her. So close. So close._

"Angel," she repeated, and he realized that she was not merely speaking the word this time; she was calling to him.

A sudden, maddening desire to laugh permeated his being, startlingly in its strength. He did not know where this impulse came from, or why it should come now. Yet it vanished just as quickly, and in its place he was filled with a strange fascination. It seemed an entire world was lain out before his feet, ready to divulge wonders he had never seen, and emotions he had never felt. And she would be there, his dear Christine, to accompany him. He would give her his music, teach her to sing and revel in the sound of her voice when it reached its crest. He would talk with her at times, only talk and nothing more, and she would talk back in that heartbreaking voice with love and devotion. Could it be that he might be loved?

He knew a time would come when he would lead her by the hand, take her into the labyrinth of his domain and reveal to her all the mysteries of his genius. They would sing together until the very air vibrated with passion and surrendered to their splendor. But not yet. Soon maybe, when she had become the star of the stage, of Paris itself, but not yet. Now there was only one thing he needed to do, and he suddenly felt nervous, for the act meant trust. It was something he had rarely done.

But he loved her, he had spoken with her for the first time, and if for no other reason than this, he wanted to tell her: he wanted her to speak the lesser evil of his two secrets. To speak today, to sing tomorrow. To say a word that had passed few human lips in his lifetime. To speak his name.

"Erik. My name is Erik."

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A/N: Well, I hope you liked it. Now that you've finished my oneshot, I can take this opportunity to tell you something that I didn't want to trouble you with in my first author's note: Review! Pretty please? 


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